


Abeyance

by hyggeligBirch (anenigmaticsmile)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, cruel chanyeol, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenigmaticsmile/pseuds/hyggeligBirch
Summary: Hana is a maid in Chanyeol's estate.  Unfortunately for her, she's caught his eye.
Relationships: Park Chanyeol/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Abeyance

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you reread a fic you've posted but taken down because you thought it was too dark, and you wonder what exactly you were going through when you wrote it? This is that fic. It's a good one though.
> 
> But please, please, please, heed the warnings.

_In the late spring of 1893, Crown Prince Jongyeol passed in his sleep after long months of illness. In the wake of his passing, the country grew quiet, wrapped in the cloak of mourning. his twin brother, now crown prince, sequestered himself in a seaside estate to grieve._

\--

The estate is buzzing with activity, harried hired hands tripping over each other as they struggle through unfamiliar halls with buckets of hot soapy water and piles of linen. Hana jumps out of the way of a wild bucket, swears as the tepid sludge inside splatters onto her dress, and keys into an old door, hidden in the paneling of the wall. She holds her breath desperately as she runs across the cracked wooden boards in the old back passage, and sees the smudge leaking through the gaps in the exterior walls swirl between the hot copper steam pipes. Every third step on the rickety staircase at the end of the passage is rotted out; Hana skips them nimbly, practice making perfect, even as her vision starts to swim from lack of oxygen. She hazards a quick breath before slamming her shoulder into the door at the bottom of the stairs. It sticks a moment before springing open into the formal sitting room. Another slam and a twist of her skeleton key in the lock and the door seals back into the wall, nearly unnoticeable. She hears a familiar laugh start as she leans against the wall and gasps, forcing oxygen into her lungs and fighting back heaves at the taste of the heavy smudge on her tongue.

“You know you ain’t s’posed to go in the walls without a rebreather, right, Hana?” Sora asks between laughs.

“Haven’t got one,” Hana struggles between gasps, “‘nd you know it. Too fucking expensive.”

“Language, Miss Hana,” warns an older voice, crackling in the way of smudged lungs.

Hana grimaces. Trust her to piss off Matron already. “Of course, Matron.” Finally catching her breath, she turns to the room. To Hana’s surprise, it’s just the three of them. Sora is balancing precariously on a ladder to wash the walls down while Matron holds the great chandelier in her lap and patiently polishes the metal frame.

A knock on the open door saves Hana from having to ask what she should do. One of the village girls stands in the doorway, a pair of buckets at her feet, set down to let her knock.

“I got hot water,” she says, “an’ I’m to take your dirty, iffn I think rights.”

“Of course,” Hana says, quickly crossing the room and picking up the buckets. “Thank you, Mari. Dirty water is over by the fireplace.”

“And up here!” Sora interjects, wobbling as she picks a bucket off the top of her ladder. “Hana, give me one of them clean ones, yeah?”

It’s a complicated dance to trade buckets without either dropping the buckets, or toppling Sora, but they manage it and Mari takes the dirty buckets away. Hana watches her wobble between the sloshing buckets for a moment before grabbing the other clean bucket.

“Matron?” she asks timidly.

Matron gestures widely. “You can do the furniture while Sora works on the walls.” Her knees creak as she stands, placing the chandelier carefully on the floor. “I will be in the halls, if you need me. This is finished.”

Hana scrubs at a corner table for a few minutes, water already turning black, before she’s satisfied Matron has gone far enough for gossip to start. “What was Matron doing in here, Sora? She never works with us.”

“I think she was thinkin’ I was gonna fall and kill myself without anyone here to watch me, you know?” Sora makes a wide sweep with her arm, immediately throwing herself off balance. “Ah souls,” she swears as she grabs the ladder to steady. “I ain’t done it yet, though.”

“Not for lack of trying, right?” Hana laughs.

“Hana, seriously, shut up! I ain’t trying!”

“Right,” Hana says, and leaves it at that as Sora fumes under her breath. Always better to step away when the fire gets started under her. They work in silence for quite a while - three changes of water and two wall sections done - before Sora finally calms enough to talk again.

“At least we’re not cleaning up after his Princeliness no more, yeah?”

Hana takes the peace offering for what it is. “Souls, yes. I’m so tired of his messes. How do four boys make that big a mess? My hands will never be the same.” Prince Chanyeol had finally been coaxed out of his room by his friends nearly two months before and they had all been wildly drunk since. Every day another room needed to be completely cleaned after their raucous night. No one could stand them any more.

“Fuck, I know,” Sora replies. “An’ to think you was happy when they finally got him outta his room! ‘No more babysitting the prince,’ you said. Look at us all now!”

Hana sighs at the foot of the table. “Don’t remind me. I still stand by that, you know. If I ever have to touch his body again, I will die. Grown men should be able to bathe themselves.”

“An’ feed themselves, and change themselves, and visit the chamber pot themselves, I know, I know. You’ve said it a thousand times,” Sora groans as she clambers off the ladder.

“Look, Sora, if you had ever taken your shift with him, you’d understand!”

Sora shakes her head and shifts her ladder down a little further, right next to the window, which looks bare with its curtains in the wash. She gets halfway up the ladder before something outside catches her attention. “Hana! Hana!”

Hana groans and heads over to the window. She doesn’t see anything interesting beyond the bustle of people outside, rebreather masks fastened solidly to their faces as they clip bushes and repair structures in preparation for the new year, just like everyone inside. “What is it, Sora?”

“There!” Sora points, waving vaguely at a blurry shape by the woods. “He’s right there! What do you think he’s doing out there? Do you think he can see us? Hana? Hana?”

She squints, but she can’t make out whoever Sora is pointing at through the smudge floating in the twilight air. She can guess, though. “Lord Jongin? Is he the one out there?”

Sora nods enthusiastically.

“No, Sora, he definitely can’t see us in here.” Hana turns back to her tables. “Can we just get back to work?”

“But what if he _is_ looking at us?”

“Sora, I promise, he really isn’t looking at us. Now come on. I want to get this shit done.”

Sora mumbles but hauls herself up her ladder. “Fine.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Hana breathes. “I was kinda hoping we could put a couple hours into our room tonight, okay? I know we won’t get a lot of sleep, but we’re just doing all the cleaning still tomorrow, and the new year is in a week. We’re going to have the estate clean in time, no problem, but if we don’t -”

“Yeah, I know. If we don’t make the time for our rooms, we won’t be clean in time for the new year and the souls won’t find anything for them when they come visit and we’d be screwed. I’m not lookin’ to get cursed for the new year, yeah? We can definitely put time in tonight.”

Hana hums a thanks and they turn back to their work as the sunlight falters.

\--

“Stand straight, be gentle with your movements, do not speak to anyone, and _do not react_ ,” Matron fusses as she smooths out the girls’ dresses. “I wish I didn’t have to send girls. Do _not_ mess this up.”

The four girls all take big settling breaths and twitch their shoulders a little higher, backs a little straighter. Hana switches the big platter to one hand and smooths out her skirt. She’s only trembling a little - she’s served before, of course, but she’s never served meals for _the prince_. If only the footmen weren’t all out preparing for the new year celebration - !

Matron waves at Steward and he opens the doors before stepping to the side to let the girls carefully enter. The boys are already sat at the large dining table, the four of them clustered around one end. Prince Chanyeol sits at the head, of course, brown curls falling in his eyes as he gestures with a partially full wineglass, well in the midst of a story. Lord Baekhyun nods encouragingly from his right as he tries to subtly poke Lord Jongin in the side as the girls brush around the edges of the room. Jongin blinks before joining the nodding, very obviously unsure what’s going on. Chanyeol doesn’t seem to care - or notice.

Hana winces as she hears a soup tureen clatter on a platter across the room and prays the lords don’t care. She sneaks a quick glare at the girl, who has the good sense to duck her head in embarrassment, before gesturing with her head for the soups to be served. One of the other girls quickly darts out to place the heavy soup bowls on the table in front of each of the boys, always from their left. _At least one of them knows what they’re doing,_ Hana thinks. How she ended up in charge of this mess, she has no idea. Matron hates her.

The girl with the tureen walks around the table, stopping briefly beside each of the boys to let the last girl - Mari, this one Hana knows, at least - ladle soup into each of the bowls. Sehun, sitting on Chanyeol’s left, holds out his empty wine glass as the girls pass him. Hana quickly waves the girls on and goes to fill the glass herself. Steward had insisted on sending her with three bottles of wine to start with, and the reason becomes quickly obvious as the boys spill their soup. They’re already tipsy, and constantly requesting more wine.

The girls are kept busy refilling wine and clearing plates; it seems the kitchen sends a new course every five minutes. Hana can feel eyes on her every time she walks up to the table, to fill a glass or serve more food, but she tries to ignore it. It’s not her place to care. Besides, they’re drunk men. She would expect to be stared at.

It’s a little harder to ignore Chanyeol grabbing her ass as she serves him roast beef, however. She swallows hard and glances at him. A breach of protocol, but she really couldn’t care less. His hand is on her ass and, yes, it isn’t her place to care, but she _really_ can’t help it. He crinkles his eyes in a semblance of a drunk smile and she shoots her gaze back to the table. It’s unreal, seeing those eyes focused on her. Sure, she’d seen them plenty when he had confined himself uselessly to his room, but that was dark, and they were lifeless. In the light, with the playful life behind them, they are downright disconcerting. As with all royal eyes, they are two colors. Chanyeol’s were split right down the center of each, one half a dark brown, dim against the brilliant blue of the other half. He thankfully lets her go when she backs up, moving around the table to serve Baekhyun and Jongin, but those unnerving eyes stay locked on her, even after she returns to her place at the sideboard. And doesn’t stop for the rest of the meal. He grabs her whenever she comes near, pulling on her wrist when she pours him wine and feeling her up as she serves him food.

She is shaking as she finally, finally leaves the room. It’s not her place to hate his touch, but she does, so, so desperately.

\--

Sora throws herself across the foot of the bed, rolling over to look at Hana with big, childish eyes. Hana looks up from her stitching, chapped hands never stilling on the torn dress. “What could you possibly want?”

“Didja see the way the prince has been looking at you the last few days? He’s always poking about!” Sora grabs Hana’s ankle excitedly. “Hana, what if this is your way out? What if he _likes_ you an’ he wants to marry you an’ get you out of here? Hana! He totally likes you! Remember the dinner?”

Hana swallows as she remembers the dinner. How much she hated having his attention, being touched by him. “I don’t know. I’m probably just a skirt to him, you know? If I wanted to be just a skirt to somebody, I could be down dancin’ in the village, you know.”

“Hana, no, he’s great! He’s so pretty an’ he’s rich and he’s super nice, even when he’s drunk. Totally perfect in every way an’ you’ve got his eye! Go with it. He’s not one of them what just chase skirts, I’m sure of it!”

And that’s fair, it really is. By any standard, Chanyeol is absolutely gorgeous, and, as crown prince, he’s incomparably rich. But he’s not kind, at least not in Hana’s experience. He was sharp words and grabby hands all throughout the dinner. Of course, Sora wouldn’t have seen that. “Okay, I guess. If he asks me, I’ll go with it, okay?”

“Yeah!” Sora turned onto her back and groaned. “If only I could catch someone’s eye…”

Hana laughed. “You’re not thinking of just anyone’s eye, are you?”

“How’d you guess?”

“You never stop moaning about Jongin.” Hana pats Sora’s hand, still around her ankle. “But I think I got some bad news for you.”

Sora scowls at her. “What?”

“You’re really not his type.”

“Small? Rich? Porcelain? What?”

Hana sets her stitching in her lap to lean forward and whisper in Sora’s ear. “Male.”

Eyes wide as dinner plates, Sora jolts upright. “Hana! You could get killed for saying that!” she hisses. “Don’t make stupid jokes like that!”

Hana shakes her head simply. “I’m really not. I’ve seen things, Sora.” She nods.

“What things? What could you have possibly seen?” Sora straddles Hana’s lap in her excitement and Hana nearly forgets how to breathe.

She gently pushes Sora back an inch, so they’re not breathing the same air. Thinks back to touches at a dinner table. Walking into a room and seeing nothing but skin. “Remember I clean their rooms?” When Sora nods, she continues, “Let’s just say their rooms have a connecting door for a reason. And there are things I _never need to see again_.” Like a dick. Or the naked ass of a bare man. Or two of each. She’s going to be scarred for fucking life.

“Souls in a bucket, that’s...I dunno what to even say.” Sora shakes her head. “Maybe he needs a cover, though? I mean, I’d be a good cover. Wouldn’t make a fuss at all. It’d just get me out of this place, yeah?”

Hana pulls Sora in for a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of an almost-bath-day Sora. “Sure.”

\--

Chanyeol’s room is a mess. She shouldn’t be surprised, what with the boys running all over in the last few days of the year, without regard for the hard work everyone else on the estate are putting in to make the place ready for the holiday. At least it’s mostly just disarray, she figures. It could have been vomit-caked.

It doesn’t take much for practiced hands to pile the loose laundry from the floor and the tables and the chairs into her large wicker basket. Hana strips the bedding, too, white cottons covered in vomit and sweat and something she really doesn’t have a name for and adds it to the pile. The laundry wobbles as she picks up the basket and carefully, _carefully_ , walks it down the hall to the linen closet. A chute inside delivers the laundry neatly downstairs; fresh linens wait on the shelves.

And she’s stretched halfway across the bed, straightening out the comforter - it might be warming up now, in June, but it’s still too cold at night to go without - when the heavy door creaks open. She nearly falls as she whips around, startled. And freezes. Nothing makes it through her mind but _he shouldn’t be here, he’s supposed to be on the grounds, he shouldn’t be here!_ at the sight of Prince Chanyeol standing solidly in the door.

He sweeps his arm intentionally, indicating his front. “I need new pants,” he announces.

She bobs a quick bow and rushes to the dresser. Her hands shake as she offers the clean pair to him, head bowed under the heavy weight of his gaze. Hana wishes she were more surprised when his hand closes around her wrist.

“You know,” he mutters, booze-soaked voice creeping into her bones, “I could really use a pick-me-up, too.”

He forces her backwards with long strides, fingers gripping her arms tight, keeping her upright. They abruptly let go as her thighs hit the bed and she’s falling, hard. She bounces, hard, before he’s on her, thigh forcing its way between her legs, hands grabbing her wrists again, pressing them hard against the bed.

“Behave, or I will _tell_ ,” he warns as she twists against his hold.

He gives her time to consider the threat, two-colored eyes boring into hers, hot breath heavy on her face. Telling would mean the end of her. Telling would get her expelled from the estate, barred from real employment. Telling would leave her hopping between cruel men’s beds just for a crust of bread. She falls still.

Her breathing isn’t steady enough to pull her through. It hitches when he pushes her skirts above her waist, chokes at his hot, greedy hands on her untouched skin, and stops. Stops as he breaches her and the pain starts. Burns through her stomach, her legs, her heart, brighter with every stroke. It pushes hot tears from her eyes, sends them cascading down her cheeks and pooling in her hair, thrown loose from the impact.

She gets lost, somewhere between the pain and the heat, and drifts away into the blackness.

Everything’s blurry as she blinks herself back into focus. Her face feels taut with tear tracks, and there’s something tight and itchy covering her legs. She ventures a cautious hand down. Her fingertips come away red and white with blood and - and seed, she knows that much.

“Look at the fucking mess you’ve made,” Chanyeol barks from somewhere to her left. She fights the instinct to turn away and hide inside herself. “You better get this shit cleaned the fuck up,” he continues as he moves into her eyeline. A rough laugh bubbles through his lips. “What a fucking whore.”

Bare moments pass after the door closes behind him before Hana’s scrambling to her feet. She pushes her bloodied skirts back down, covering her shame. Pools the now-filthy linens back off the bed and throws them into the basket. Distantly, she wonders why she isn’t crying now. She certainly feels like she should be.

The sheets are dumped down the chute and clean ones pulled from the shelf in the midst of fervent prayers. _Let him be gone. Let this be over. Don’t make me do this over again. Please don’t make me do this again._

And she sinks to the ground in the servants’ hall the moment she finishes dressing his bed, again, fighting back bile the whole time.

 _Please don’t make me do this again_ , she prays as she hears footsteps come down the hall.

\--

“Souls, Hana!” Sora exclaims as she rounds the corner. “What you doing on the floor? I’ve been looking for you for _ages_. We gotta get going iffn we’re gonna be ready for the ceremony tonight!”

Hana shakes herself back to reality. The light from the windows is dimming; it must be getting close to dusk. She has no idea how long she’s been sitting in the hall after - after _that_. No idea how many people must have passed her since. She tries an approximation of a smile as she raises a hand to Sora. “Ach, yeah. Help me up?”

Sora hauls her to her feet and Hana’s only a little wobbly on legs that feel like jelly. “Souls forgotten, I’ve been sitting too long. Can’t feel my legs,” she explains at Sora’s worried face. “Must have drifted off on break.”

“You really needa start sleeping more, Hana.”

“Well, might get to, after tonight.”

Hana almost has feeling back in her legs as they make it back to their room. She strips quickly out of her dress, but pauses at her skirts, remembering what’s under them. Sora waves hurryingly at her and she straightens. Takes a deep steadying breath, and quickly strips the fabric from her body. She has to tug to break the fabric from her skin, little flakes of crusted blood fluttering to the floor. And she forcibly ignores Sora’s gasps as she notices. There’s a little bit of water left from their morning wash; Hana wets a corner of skirt and does her best to scrub clean.

She can’t ignore Sora forever.

“Hana, what happened?” Sora asks quietly, gently. Wraps warm, strong arms around Hana’s shoulders and buries her face against Hana’s back..

It tears for a moment, the feeling of hands on her again, so soon, but this is _Sora_. Hana turns into her touch. Rests her head against Sora’s arm. “You were right. I guess, I guess,” her voice breaks, slipping thin as she fights the words, “I guess I did catch his eye. He’s...He isn’t…”

And because this is Sora, she doesn’t need any more. “Souls, Hana, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She hugs her tighter for a moment and then releases. Time and duty don’t wait for pain. “Do you want some help getting changed? I know you always have trouble with the buttons.”

Hana nods. Sora waits for her to tie her pettiskirts over her corset before offering the parlor dress, bunched to easily slip over the head. Hana fixes the cuffs while Sora does up the long row of buttons down the back.

“Think you might need to put your hair back up,” Sora says, giving Hana a quick look over.

Hana pulls the stray hairs back around the bun while Sora quickly folds Hana’s filthy clothes and tucks them aside, and then they’re ready to go.

“Sora,” Hana whispers at the door, “please don’t tell anyone.”

Sora squeezes her hand in acknowledgment. They both know what would happen if she did.

\--

The next few months pass quickly. The weather warms, evident even inside the house as shawls and blankets are shed. The guests finally start to calm, enjoying more time outdoors, sober, than indoors, drunk. Sora tries to stick near Hana, trades her downstairs jobs for Hana’s upstairs when possible. There’s safety in numbers, after all.

It’s not enough. It only takes a moment for Hana to be pulled aside, used. It doesn’t make her cry, any more. As soon as Chanyeol’s hand lands on her, her mind lets go. Drifts away somewhere else. Sometimes it seems more real, this place where she is outside, running in the grass without worrying about the smudge blackening her lungs.

Sora helps her, sneaking down to the laundry to wash ruined clothing in the middle of the night, sneaking to the kitchens to steal honey to soothe a raw throat. Sometimes she holds Hana while she cries in the dark. Sometimes Hana flinches away as her hands reach and Sora is left useless in the corner.

And when Hana’s stomach turns on her, Sora holds her hair back as she vomits. So it’s really not a surprise that Sora notices it first.

“Hana, are you sure this is a stomach flu?” she asks, curled against Hana’s back late one night.

Hana shivers at the breath on her neck. “What else would it be?”

“Well, you’re really sick every day, and you’re really tired, and I’ve kind of noticed your dresses are getting kind of tight.”

Hana doesn’t want to hear this. “Spell it out for me, okay?”

“Yeah. I think - Hana, I think you’re pregnant.”

Hana holds her breath. Does the math. Months. It’s been months since her last bleed. “What do I do? What do I do?”

Sora pulls Hana closer, arm pressed against her stomach. Hana can feel Sora’s heart beat against her back. “I know a woman. She can take care of it. You know. It’s expensive, but. I’ll help you if you want. I’ve got some coin-”

“No, no, I can’t take your money,” Hana grabs Sora’s hand. ”That’s getting you out of here.”

“I’d give it to you, you know that. This is really important - it’s your _life_ , Hana.”

Hana sighs. “I can’t do it, Sora. Matron would never let me go.”

“Okay, yeah. We’ll do this, Hana. We’ll make it through this. Maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll just. It’ll just pass on its own.”

Hana turns and burrows into Sora’s chest as the tears start to fall.

\--

It doesn’t pass, of course. Nothing has ever been that easy - why would this be? Hana spends frazzled weeks working herself into the ground, fighting constant exhaustion to appear normal. Hana doesn’t even want to think about what might happen if her pregnancy is found out, much less if the father is known. Sora’s an outright gift, of course, trading her shifts to get Hana off her feet when she’s about to pass out and staying up nights to help Hana alter her dresses as they grow tight around her. The weather snaps as September dies, frost coating the ground and the windows. The staff change the estate over to its winter dressings, hauling out heavy curtains and blankets, cleaning out the steam pipes and waking up the cranky radiators. The change in wardrobe aids Hana’s efforts, the warm dresses and woven shawls obscuring her rounding figure. But it was never going to last forever. Hana had just hoped it would last longer than mid-November.

She’s cleaning alone in one of the guest bedrooms, a wire brush in one hand carefully cleaning the year’s dust and dirt from an ornate iron radiator when familiar footsteps march into the room and the door clicks shut. She turns to him, easy, quiet. It’s too much effort to fight him anymore.

His hands are rough as they slide over her, tracing her shape through her woolen dress and the inevitable kiss is leaning into her when he freezes. Leans back and runs his hands again over her front.

Her bump is small, but it’s absolutely there and she knows exactly when he realizes it. Chanyeol’s eyes crinkle, eyebrows wrinkling downwards as his lips turn out. His hands trace out the edge of her stomach and cup the sides as he raises his eyes and stares deep into hers.

“What’s this?” he asks, and he can’t possibly be that dense, can he?

“It’s...Sir, it’s-I’m. Sir-” and she’s so scared, so scared of what he might do. Her voice fades into nothing. He could have her killed. He could give any excuse and have her killed, just to cover up his own actions. He could have _Sora_ killed, if he suspected she knew. “I’m sorry, Sir.” Not that she has anything to apologize for, here.

“What is this, girl?” He insists. Grabs her wrist, hard enough to bruise. “What is _this_.”

She can’t speak above a whisper. Can’t look him in the eyes. But she manages to answer him. “I’m-I’m with child, Sir. I’m sorry.”

He grimaces, grip tightening even as he throws his hands down in disgust. “Of _course_ you are. This is fucking _perfect_.” He lets her go. Runs a hand through unruly hair. “You’re not stupid enough to have told anyone, right?”

She watches as he backs away from her, running hands through his hair and down his face. He paces for a few minutes, muttering quickly to himself in a language she doesn’t quite recognize and rubbing at the back of his neck before turning sharply back to her.

“Tell no one,” he demands, “and I _will_ figure this out.” He shakes his head and turns away. “Stupid bitch,” she hears muttered under his breath just before the door closes behind him.

Figure it out, she’s sure he’ll do. How _safe_ the solution will be for her, she can only fear.

\--

Hana doesn’t know what she’s expecting, after Chanyeol’s worrying words earlier that day, but it certainly isn’t to be accosted by Matron, in all her pinstriped glory, as she’s polishing silver in the front dining room.

“You,” Matron crackles as she points a twisted finger at Hana’s head, “will be off of this land within the hour. I cannot believe the disgrace you have brought upon this house!” Her voice spirals louder as her motions become more and more aggressive. “A pregnancy! I do not house whores, young lady, and we shall not suffer your presence another day. Now get your things and _leave_.”

Hana swallows hard as she bows quickly and runs from the room. Matron’s never kind to her, but this still hurts. But what could she possibly say against it?

It doesn’t cross her mind to wonder who had told on her. Not until she makes it back to her room.

Sora is on her as soon as she opens the door, arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders, tears already soaking into Hana’s dress.

“I’m so sorry, Hana. I’m so so sorry. I didn’t want to,” she cries. “She-she was going to throw me out if I didn’t tell, and I can’t-I can’t be out there. I begged her. You have to believe me, I begged her to let you stay but-”

“Shh,” Hana soothes her, running a hand down her back. Memorizing the feeling as she starts to cry herself. “I know, I know. It’s okay.” She pulls back, smiling wanly as she locks eyes with Sora. “I’ve got strong lungs and strong arms. I’ll be okay. Who knows, maybe I’ll even earn enough to buy you out of here.”

They both know that’s a bald-faced lie, but Sora still lets go. Backs up.

Hana ignores Sora’s stifled sobbing as she gathers her meagre things. There will be time enough later.

And for the second time that day, Chanyeol enters the room.

Hana forces herself not to fade into the wall as Sora’s sobs stutter to a stop at Chanyeol’s furious face because _Sora doesn’t know how to deal with him_. She consciously steps forward, pushes Sora behind her as she tilts her head down and looks up at Chanyeol just the way she knows he likes. “What do you need, Sir?” she asks, and her voice doesn’t tremble at all.

“I will deal with Matron,” he rasps, and _wow_ , his voice is _shaking_ with anger, “but you are not leaving. None of you are leaving.” His big paw on her stomach makes his meaning very clear. “I will _deal_ with Matron.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Hana whispers, fear starting to crawl in her stomach at the possession in his voice.

The kiss is rough, as always, his hand holding her chin carefully in place. As he pulls away he leans his forehead against hers - a show, she realizes as her heart pounds - and murmurs, “I’ll be back for my payment later.”

\--

Hana shouldn’t be surprised by the way the whispers follow her, afterwards. Matron had made it very clear that she wouldn’t be tolerated in the house anymore; not even Chanyeol at her back can change that. She has to fight Sora, nearly physically, to keep her from following closely at her back at all times. It’s bad enough the other staff - people she’s known and worked beside for half her life - are throwing her away. There’s no need for them to be putting that on Sora, who certainly _doesn’t_ have _the crown prince_ invested in her life.

None of that makes it any easier when judgmental glares drive her from rooms before she even enters them, when she’s turned away from the servants’ table - “There’s no room at the table,” Cook says, placing a bowl on the seat Hana’s sat on every day for eight years - and made to eat in the scullery, like a naughty child.

At the same time, the male world of the estate turns towards her. Steward sneaks her ginger candies on mornings she can barely stand for the churning in her stomach. The footmen who’ve come with Chanyeol find excuses to stop by her workspaces, to carry the heavy buckets and move furniture for her. And the noble boys notice her presence. They get out of her way when they see her, and the messes shrink into near nothingness. In her sections at least. She can only imagine what they all think.

\--

The first snowstorm of the year has finally broken, and the air is crisp inside the estate as the boilers struggle to push steam enough through the walls when Hana is grabbed from the hallway and shoved quickly into a side room.

“Sir,” she starts, because she is _tired_ and _covered in soot_ and _pregnant_ and none of that adds up to good decision making, “if it would please, I’m trying to repair the radiators.” She doesn’t have _time_ for Chanyeol’s _needs_ and she’ll definitely be shaking over her words once she’s safe in her room, but now she’s just _mad_.

“It’s not that,” he says, and, _oh_ , is that a nervous tic? He thumbs at his lip for a moment. “I told you I would deal with this, and that’s what I’m doing. Just shut up and come here.”

And that’s when Hana notices the others in the room. Jongin and Sehun are lounging on the sofa, still in their dressing gowns, and gathering warmth from steaming mugs in their hands. Probably milk, Hana knows. Baekhyun on the other hand...Baekhyun’s wearing a funny hat. It’s flat and round and sticks out over his ears. The last time Hana’s seen a hat like that? It’s had to have been ten years. Her mother’s death, she thinks. The woman who had taken the body to buried had worn the same kind of hat.

Chanyeol answers before she can ask the question. “We’re getting married. Right now.”

“I have the rights!” Baekhyun grins, and, oh, she hadn’t noticed before, but a quarter of his right eye is a soft green. An actual priest then, probably. “It’ll be like five minutes and you’ll be good to go.”

She really doesn’t want to, but she doesn’t have a choice. Not when Chanyeol’s good will, if you can call it that, is keeping her alive.

She’s never attended a wedding before, but the way that Baekhyun spins his hands in circles as he talks, informal phrases spilling in a way that only seems half reverential, makes her think that this isn’t a standard ceremony. Her mind spins when Baekhyun has them join hands and, despite her best efforts at staying present at her own _wedding_ , for souls, she drifts out to that quiet place. There doesn’t seem to be much input needed from Hana and Chanyeol during the ceremony. Baekhyun gives them two lines to repeat and spends the rest of the time waffling about things she can’t even process. The ceremony concludes with Chanyeol fastening a thin chain bracelet around her wrist and kissing her softly as the other boys make half-hearted cheers as they lay drunkenly across the furniture.

“What’s it like being a married woman?” Baekhyun leans into her ribs as Chanyeol disappears.

“It is, Sir, it is,” Hana struggles to answer, beating back the urge to slap him off of her. Pregnancy is uncomfortable enough.

And Chanyeol returns from the hall, two small packages in hand. He holds the larger out to Hana, smiling gently, and it is _weird_ to see such a soft expression on his face. But they’re in public; he knows how to fake a smile, she reminds herself. She perches on the sofa next to him and carefully tears into the brown paper, hands shaking only a little with shock of the last five minutes. And then her hands meet soft fabric and she can feel the seam lines and she’s already crying.

“There’s two things you’re going to need, as my wife,” Chanyeol says, and Hana thinks she sees his eyes harden on the last word, “Proper dress,” he pulls the fabric out of the package, revealing a brand-new, soft grey woolen dress, finer than anything Hana’s worn before, “and a rebreather.” He holds the second package out. Hana takes it.

It’s hard on the edges, a wooden box inside the paper, hefty and strong. And inside the box is a grey mask, carefully shaped to fit over the lower half of the face, lined with a soft cotton. It’s not the nicest rebreather Hana has ever seen - many of the royals have delicate porcelain painted to look like a continuation of their face, lined in silk. But it’s much nicer than anything a servant could ever hope to purchase. Its filtration system is hidden cleverly into the design, not the bulky disks seen on most, and she can already tell it will sit nicely on her face, instead of slipping around like a cheap make.

“Is it...Is it really mine, Sir?” she asks. She almost fears the answer. What is he going to want in payment, if they are hers?

“This and much more,” he says, and there must be something unspoken in the way he says it, the way he leans into her, because his friends all disappear from the room, gently closing the door behind them. “Now, let’s get you changed, quickly. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. I want to beat out the snow.”

He pulls her to standing and fumbles for a moment at the buttons on her sooty dress before she takes over and unbuttons with ease. Better to avoid his ire and just do as he wants, she figures. He throws her dirty dress into a corner, once she’s finally stepped out of it, and holds the new dress out. Not with the skirt bunched and ready to slip over her head, as Sora would, but hanging straight, not even bothering to undo the buttons. It doesn’t matter. She can take care of getting dressed just fine, thank you very much.

Once she has the last button done, Chanyeol steps around her back. “This was expensive,” he grumbles in her ear as he pushes the rebreather over her nose and against her cheeks. He fastens it deftly - she has no idea what happens behind her head, but that it takes only one hand and the mask is no longer falling off - but a bit too tightly. The edges dig against the little bit of fat left in her cheeks from growing up.

He doesn’t give her any time to adjust to the new feeling of breathing, where every breath is warm and stifled, making her feel like she has to fight on every inhale. He grabs her by the waist and they walk swiftly down the hall, Hana taking two steps to every one of his long strides. And then he takes her out the doors.

It’s been nearly eight years since Hana last stepped outside, and the bitter cold hits her at the same time as the glinting sunlight and she nearly crumples. And then she does crumple, inside, as Chanyeol decides he’s had enough of leading her and simply swings her into his arms. He carries her to one of the hulking walking carriages waiting at the end of short path and dumps her onto one of the lush seats. He has barely swung the door closed and taken his seat next to Sehun when both of the carriages come to life and rise on their metal legs with only the faintest of complaints and puffs of steam.

Hana falls off the seat as the machine lurches forward, taking its first step, and Chanyeol laughs his booming laugh.

\--

They walk through the night and well into the morning, the gentle rocking of the carriage luring Hana’s riding mates to sleep. She herself sleeps fitfully, stomach churning all through the night from the motion, the diesel fumes, the nearness of Chanyeol, the feeling of the rebreather tight against her face. She adjusts it by the early morning light filtering through the curtains, pulling lightly at the straps until the mask sits lightly but surely on her face, no longer cutting strips into her skin.

Sehun wakes first but does naught more than shift in his seat and push the curtain aside to stare at the passing countryside. Eventually he grows bored and jabs a well-aimed elbow into Chanyeol’s ribs, well-exposed in his slumped position, arm tucked across his chest. Chanyeol jerks awake. Sehun expertly dodges the flying hand.

“What, what?” Chanyeol slurs.

“Stop the carriage. I gotta piss,” Sehun says as he pokes Chanyeol’s side for good measure.

Chanyeol grumbles but obliges, pulling a rope strung across the ceiling to alert the driver. The carriage groans to a stop, metal shrieking against the cold as it rocks back and sinks down on its legs. Sehun is out the door and pissing into the white snow nearly before the steam stops hissing from the legs. Chanyeol follows him shortly, wobbling a little as his brain slowly wakes his legs. He turns to help Hana down, holding out a hand. She only considers a moment before taking it and stumbling down the steps, the heavy weight on her bladder deciding for her.

The fumes from the machine - so much stronger down here, by the exhaust - hit her, hard, and she’s suddenly struggling with her rebreather, desperately opening the buckles as her stomach flips once, twice - and spews, just missing the mask as she pulls it from her face and doubles over. She comes up with only bile. Breakfast the day before had been lost to jealous eyes, and she had worked through lunch, only to be stolen before dinner. She coughs as her stomach finally, finally settles, deciding there isn’t anything left to give out. There are concerned eyes on her as she straightens, but she smiles and waves them away. It’s just the pregnancy. And it’s the pregnancy that has her wobble a decent distance away from the men for some semblance of privacy in the barren landscape to squat and piss. Blessed relief.

The pattern continues for several days as the carriages make their way across the snowy land. Sometimes it’s Sehun helping her out of the carriage, and the men are always sure to help her get her mask off the instant her feet hit the ground, but it continues. She finally gets a proper sleep on the fourth day, raw exhaustion finally taking over and forcing her brain to shut down. She’s only awakened near dusk of the following day as the carriage loudly settles again.

“Come on,” Chanyeol kicks her awake. “We’re getting out.”

She wipes the sleep from her eyes and accepts his help out of the carriage. It’s already becoming difficult for her to balance, with the way her stomach is ballooning out from her small body. She leans on Chanyeol when she makes it to the ground, disoriented as the wind whips flecks of ice across her cheeks under the dark sky. He lets her balance on him as they walk slowly along the short path between the carriages and a large, red brick house, lights flickering joyfully in the windows.

Chanyeol makes sure their companions are a good distance behind them before leaning to whisper in Hana’s ear. “We’re staying here to wait out the storm. The people are very good friends of my parents. You will behave. We are _in love_.” He gives her a look that brooks no argument, and raps neatly on the large door.

He’s all smiles as a large woman opens the door, dressed in a simple black wool dress and ushers them inside. He pulls Hana close to him, wrapping his large hand around her shoulder as they walk through the threshold. Hana hasn’t been in a building other than the main estate for nearly eight years; it’s almost comforting to have a familiar hand around her as she enters the unfamiliar space. Almost.

\--

Hana slips from the room as her travelling companions sink deep into their third bottle of wine, compliments of their gracious hosts, and ghosts down the hall, footsteps light even as she leans on the wall for balance. She’s focusing so strictly on finding her way through the dimly lit hall she doesn’t notice light footsteps darting up behind her.

A hand finds her wrist, gripping tightly, and she shrieks a single staccato note as she cowers against the wall.

“Shhh, shhh,” an unfamiliar male voice hushes her as the pressure releases on her wrist. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

And hasn’t she heard that before? She swallows, composing herself and standing straighter. “Who are you?” she asks.

Her assaulter moves a little to his right, into the little light falling from a nearby lamp, and _oh_ , she recognizes that soft black mop and softly chiseled face. He’s one of Chanyeol’s footmen. “I am Yixing,” he says, eyes searching her face for - something. He apparently finds it, as he relaxes into a smile, cheek dimpling as his eyes light up.

It soothes Hana. Her heart eases in its pounding and her breath regulates. And then she is strikingly reminded of why she left the room in the first place. “Fuck,” she whispers as she grabs at her stomach. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Yixing looks worried, as if he might be the cause of her swearing. “I’m sorry. Do what?”

“Not you,” she waves him back as she pulls herself to proper standing against the wall. “This _thing_ keeps kicking me in the bladder and I _really_ have to pee.” She grimaces with another sharp pain. “You don’t know where a chamber pot is, do you?”

He wraps a strong arm around her shoulders and pulls her upright against him. “Just this way.”

\--

Yixing drives the carriage she’s been riding in for the past week, Hana learns as they bundle their way back to their carriages through the fresh snowfall. He helps her lever her unwieldy self into the great walking machine with gentle hands as Chanyeol and Sehun find themselves already sunken into their seat by the heavy weight of a long night of drinking. Sehun sprawls across one of the seats completely, leaving only the spot directly next to Chanyeol open.

Hana seats herself quietly, careful not to disturb the man with an arm thrown over his eyes any more than necessary and settles for another lengthy ride. This time, however, she carries a small ball of wool and a hook in her pockets, courtesy of the lady of the house. “Might as well have something to do,” she had said as she pressed the gorgeous red wool into Hana’s hands before she left that morning. Hana is grateful for the occupation as the carriage slowly walks down the icy roads, groaning softly with each step. She works quickly at the yarn, pulling the beginnings of a blanket together as her riding companions sleep fitfully, snoring loudly.

Chanyeol notices the blanket a day in. An accomplishment, really, it being such a bright piece in such a small space. “What is that?” he asks, and Hana notes, not for the first time, how the rough edges have disappeared from his voice on this trip.

“A blanket,” she answers softly. “For the baby.”

He stares at her a moment, mouth twisting, before shrugging and slumping back against the wall of the carriage.

\--

Hana is drifting on the edge of sleep as the carriage slows to a stop and bows down on its legs. Chanyeol and Sehun grumble as the door opens with a flurry of snow and blast of cold.

“We’ve arrived,” Yixing says, ears already pink from the wind. He offers a hand as the men clamber out and wrap their cloaks tightly around themselves. Chanyeol glares as he offers the same support to Hana; Yixing quickly drops his hand and steps back, allowing Chanyeol to take his place.

The stiff wind nearly knocks Hana over - she’s never been particularly big, even now - and the snow blows into her eyes, blinding her. Though she tries, she can’t make out where, exactly, they’ve arrived. Another manor to overnight at?

Chanyeol leans into her as the Baekhyun and Jongin join them from their carriage. “We’re home,” he says as the carriages groan back to life and slowly back away from the path. “You know the rules.”

_Home?_ Hana wonders, for a brief moment. They’d left her home weeks ago. And then it hits her. They’re at the palace. His home - and hers now, she supposes. His arm is tense around her shoulders and she realizes he’s waiting for something. Probably for her to acknowledge him. She nods hard against his chest, hoping he can feel the movement for what it is. She knows the rules. They’re in love. She’s not a servant, any more. She will behave.

He squeezes her and starts walking quickly, bowing his head against the wind.

_I’m never going to get used to this_ , Hana thinks as she takes in the massive hall, with its bright colors and brilliant lights and overwhelming warmth. Just two weeks ago she’d never have been allowed to enter through the front door of any building, much less the _palace_. It’d be all dark, narrow, frozen hallways until someone called for her. And then she’d be working, not standing still in the middle of the most beautiful place she’s ever seen while quick, even hands undo the clasps to her snow-covered cloak. She catches the girl’s eyes as her cloak is folded over her arm and gives a small smile. It doesn’t do to actually _talk_ to the servants, but surely that much is okay, right? Still she tenses, expecting a reprimand from the short-tempered Chanyeol. When none comes, she turns, searching the room only to find him conspicuously absent.

“His parents wanted to talk to him,” Baekhyun calls across the room, noticing her distress. And promptly notices her shivers. The room may be warm, but her hair and dress are wet with icy water. “Yixing,” Baekhyun waves at the man standing against the wall. “Go take her to the guest rooms. And get, Mina, is it? The older one, you know. No use letting the princess catch cold.”

And Hana _hates_ that word already. She stares at Yixing’s offered hand for a moment. Chanyeol is going to be so mad. Chanyeol hates her being around Yixing. Chanyeol hates her being around _anyone_. “The prince…” she starts, not sure how she’s going to finish the sentence.

Baekhyun laughs and places her hand in Yixing’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the fall for protecting our precious princess. Now go get warm.”

Yixing transfers his hold on her to a hand hovering just behind the small of her back, ready to guide or balance her if needed, but not _touching_ her. It’s the smallest of gestures, but it leaves her enough space to think, and that she’s thankful for. It lets her keep her head on and her back straight as they wander hall after hall. She tries to keep track of the turns, trying to rely on eight years in a similarly labyrinthine building to map the path, but she loses it somewhere around the eighth identical hallway.

They reach yet another hallway identical to the first when Yixing pauses for the first time. “I’m to get Mina for you, but I would rather not leave you alone while I do. I do not know, but perhaps you would come downstairs with me while I find her?”

Knowing the alternative is to be left alone in a strange room for what might be hours, Hana quickly agrees. Yixing sighs in relief and takes her around the corner to a small entertaining room. He unlocks a door hidden behind a curtain, and they’re in the dark, damp, and cold servant passage. Every servant hall looks the same - grey walls and bare floors and steep steps worn over years of heavy use - and just stepping into the familiar walls soothes the prickle in Hana’s skin.

She leans heavily on the scratched-up wall as she follows Yixing down the steep steps, and then through the narrow halls, carefully keeping her hand below the gurgling pipes. Other servants rush through the halls, brushing roughly past her with barely a glance. The halls down here twist and wind more than the upstairs halls, but Yixing takes the turns expertly, hurrying down the halls. It only takes twice that Hana stumbles and falls behind for him to slow his pace to be more manageable for her.

They finally take a final staircase up again, and Yixing knocks hard on a door. A portly woman opens the door, gazing over the tops of her spectacles, keys jangling against her waist.

“Mrs. Thomas,” Yixing blurts, “I’m looking for Mina. She’s to be assigned to the prince’s new wife.” He, thankfully, doesn’t do anything to indicate said wife hiding in his shadow.

The housekeeper’s eyes still trail over Hana’s obviously pregnant form. She purses her lips and sighs. “She should be in the west drawing room.” Drops her voice sharply. “Get _her_ out of here before you get us all in trouble.”

Yixing thanks her and tugs Hana behind, out down another long set of halls, and out another hidden door. They exit into a formal sitting room, heavy blue curtains and thick blue carpet overbearing the heavy furniture. Decadence over functionality. Through the thick smell of must and dust cuts the tight smell of black tea as a woman in a simple black dress brooms at the carpet.

Hana sways at the overbearing smell, stomach flipping quickly; Yixing all but pushes her to sit on one of the overstuffed couches and goes to the other woman.

“Mina,” Hana hears Yixing say, “the prince has arrived. You’re getting a new position.”

“What position could I possibly be getting?” Mina huffs, voice surprisingly rough. “They got tired of me in the big rooms.”

“The prince’s wife,” is all Yixing has to say for Mina to notice Hana crumpled on the sofa.

“Of course,” Mina scratches at Yixing before setting her broom against the wall. Walks over to Hana and pulls her upright with calloused hands. “Come, dear, let’s get you warm.” Turns back to Yixing. “Does she have more clothes? Go scare them up and some nice clean linens - bed and bath. The third guest room is open; we’ll be in there.”

\--

Mina is in her mid-fifties, she tells Hana as they walk. A former ladies’ maid. And she babbles over a thousand other things, keeping her voice low and slow and calming as she draws a bath in Hana’s new room - hot water from the wall! - and slips the sodden clothes off of Hana.

Hana watches Mina’s face, rather than think about the fact she’s naked in front of a stranger. And she can see exactly when Mina sees the faded bruises covering her arms, hips, although Mina tries to hide the shock, the worry. Mina reaches a hand to steady Hana as she gets into the shallow bath - blessedly warm, almost too warm - and it’s exactly the same as it was before. Steady and strong and rough. Hana had almost expected her to be too scared to touch her, after seeing her bruised body.

She’s almost embarrassed by the way the water turns dark as soon as she enters it. It’s been over a month since her last bath, and the flues kept getting blocked up - it’s not her fault she’s spent more time covered in soot than not! Her attention is quickly drawn to the way Mina draws a sweet-scented soap over her skin and try as she might, she can’t hide the flight reaction.

“If you’d rather,” Mina holds out the rag, offering. “I’m sure it’s strange to be washed by someone else.”

And Hana has the sudden desire to blurt out _it’s being touched. I don’t like being touched_ and hope Mina understands, but she has no idea who Mina reports to. Who Mina might tell. So, she simply shrugs and takes the rag. “This is all very strange,” she agrees, “but you will wash my hair, please? Sora usually does it.”

“Of course,” Mina says, and stands to fill a jug with warm water as Hana scrubs at her skin. “Sora your friend?”

“My very best,” Hana says, and tries not to cry. “I would have given anything to bring her with me.”

Mina pours the water over Hana’s head, flattening the long strands against her back. Rubs in the shampoo, loosening the dirt - and isn’t it strange, how it’s the strength in her hands that relaxes Hana the most? - and massaging Hana’s head. Hana almost melts to the soothing touch, drifting along a fog of pure exhaustion. 

“You’ll be queen one day,” Mina says, and _souls_ but Hana hasn’t even _thought_ of that, “if you’re really carrying his child. You could always bring her, this Sora, to you.”

And isn’t _that_ a thought.

\--

Hana is tucked up in a blanket on the - her - oversized bed, wearing a new woolen dress that _actually fits_ over a new maternity corset that _actually fits_ , warm broth filling her stomach and warming her through as late sun trickles in the frosted window when the door slams open. She’s so close to sleep she doesn’t even jump as Chanyeol storms in, face red as a beet.

“Dismissed,” he snaps Mina as she works at her sewing in the corner. The woman

jumps, bows, and leaves. Probably just to sit in the nearby servants’ hall until she’s called back, Hana knows.

Hana waits for him to come over to her, to hit her or fuck her she isn’t sure, but he just slams his fist into the fireplace a few times.

“I _hate_ them,” he growls, “Inappropriate this and inappropriate that! Like fuck do I _care_. Like _fuck_ can I take it back!” He throws his hands in the air and slips into a language Hana doesn’t understand, but it sounds like swearing, if Hana knows anything. Between that and the way his eyes seem to just skip over her, over and over again, Hana isn’t sure if he even realizes she’s in the room.

She curls herself as small as she can around her stomach and tries to breathe silently. No use attracting his attention if she doesn’t already have it. It works long enough for him to simmer down, stop yelling, and sit in the chair, holding his head in his hands as he continues to mutter angrily in that language she doesn’t understand. And then the baby kicks her in the lungs, hard.

Chanyeol jumps at her cry, sees her for the first time that night. “What’s wrong?” he asks, panic clearly rising in his face.

_What is he afraid of?_ Hana wonders. “The, the baby kicks very hard, Sir,” she stutters as her breath comes back to her. She promptly wonders if that was _the wrong thing to say_ as Chanyeol’s eyes flash blue as they widen and his mouth goes slack.

And then he’s _moving_ and he’s on her and she’s already ragdolling, disappearing into that quiet place when she realizes _where_ his hands are.

“Make him do it again,” Chanyeol demands as he presses his palms flat against her stomach, long fingers managing to span most of it. “Make him kick!”

She doesn’t know how he does it. One moment he looks a raving lunatic, terrifying and strong, and the next he’s a rambunctious child finally presented with a long-awaited toy.

“Make him kick!” he whines.

And it’s the way he pouts like a petulant child that gives her the courage to loosen her tongue. “I don’t control the child, sir. And you probably wouldn’t feel it through the corset any way.”

“Then take off the corset,” he suggests, eyes and hands still glued to her belly. It’s really not a suggestion, with his moods.

Hana takes a few deep breaths to steel herself before admitting, “I’ll need help.” Her new dress fastens up the back, and the corset is laced and tied behind and there is no way she could manage. There’s a reason ladies have maids.

He scrambles off of her and stands uselessly as she levers herself from her comfortable nest of blankets and turns her back to him.

“If you’re not going to, sir,” she says after a minute of nothing, “would you please send for Mina? I cannot get the corset off myself.”

Chanyeol reaches to ring the call bell and then wraps himself back around her, holding so tightly to her stomach. She stands uncomfortably there with him for several long minutes before there’s a knock at the door.

When Chanyeol seems generally unresponsive from his concentration, Hana calls, “Come in,” in the general direction of the door.

Mina enters quietly, and doesn’t quite manage to disguise the surprise in her face.

“Sir,” Hana pushes at Chanyeol’s hands carefully, “please let go so Mina can help me out of the corset.”

Mina hurries over as Chanyeol reluctantly lets go and wanders over to the corner to sit.

“It’s the baby,” Hana whispers as Mina undoes her dress, “he wants to feel it move.” Laughs a little. “And it’s plenty late enough for sleeping dress. Please retire when you’re finished.”

Mina murmurs thanks as she finishes stripping Hana down to just her shift. Before she leaves, she pointedly pulls a heavy woolen blanket from the chest at the end of the bed and lays it on the foot. Hana smiles a thanks and clambers back into the center of the bed, pulling the blanket over the shoulders of her thin shift as Chanyeol jumps on beside her.

He worms his hands under her loose shift and she jumps. She’s never been this unclothed around him. He’s never been able to touch her stomach directly. But he doesn’t make any uncouth movements, just embraces her taut stomach.

“Please, make him move,” he asks, and she’s never heard that word from his mouth before.

It’s a bizarre urge she has to resist, to smooth his tangled curls. Blame it on the pregnancy.

“It likes your voice,” she admits.

“He does?” he asks. The way his eyes catch the lamplight make him look much younger than when they’re filled with alcohol, and she almost trusts his touch. “Do you think he’ll like it if I sing?”

“Perhaps, sir,” she says, and settles back into the pillows for a long night.

\--

“Get up,” he snaps. “My parents want to meet you, and they are not patient people.”

_Patient enough_ , she wishes she could snap back at him. She’s been living in the palace nearly a month now and seen no one but Mina and Chanyeol. As far as she’s been told, his parents would rather she disappear into the night than do anything as permanent as _meet_ them. _Perhaps_ , she thinks as Chanyeol growls impatiently, grabs her under the arms and pulls her upright, _he comes by impatience honestly_.

“Please, a moment, sir,” she whispers as her stomach flips. Mina has said the sickness normally passes by this point, but it seems Hana is not so lucky. “I’ll be sick.”

“Were you not listening? My parents want to meet you, and we are _leaving now_.” He turns and huffs as Mina scrambles to Hana’s side, bowl in hand to catch her morning upheaval. It’s not enough to distract her from Chanyeol’s mutter. “Stupid bitch.”

Once her stomach stops rebelling, Mina helps Hana to her feet and carefully eases her into her clothing. She’s been switched from the fitted dresses of a little more than a month back and into wraps, cleverly designed to look like proper gowns as they drape over her petticoats and maternity corset.

Chanyeol picks up talking with her once he hears the shuffling of fabric, although he has at least the decency to face away while she’s tugged into place. “Listen closely, because if you fuck this up, you will _regret_ it,” he starts, voice perfectly conversational as his hand twitches and Hana’s blood runs cold with fear. “My parents need to believe that we are in love, and that you’re not the _worst_ possible choice. You could be an _actual_ prostitute or shit, instead of a whore of a servant.

“You will speak only when asked a direct question. You will look my mother in the face when speaking, never my father. That stupid bow you do - don’t you dare do it. You’re my wife, not some street urchin. You will act like you deserve to be here. I’ll do all of the talking; you just need to look like you’re stupid in love with me. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Are you ready yet?”

“Only a moment, sir,” Hana whispers as Mina pokes pins into her hair, securing her bun.

Chanyeol turns quickly and she flinches, sure there is a slap coming. It doesn’t come, Chanyeol grimacing as he sets his hand down. No marks for his parents. “Fine. That’s another thing. My name is Chanyeol. You will call me as such.”

Hana swallows as she nods dismissal to Mina. “Yes, yes, si-Chan. Chanyeol.”

“Chanyeol,” he rubs his eyes, “How fucking hard can it be? Chanyeol!”

She blinks and holds a hand out to him. “I-I’m ready, Chan-Chanyeol.”

He harrumphs, but it seems to be enough for his impatience. He places her hand on his arms, the picture of decorum, and pulls her quickly from the room and down the halls.

\--

She’s not sure what exactly she was expecting, but a sickly, elderly man laid up in bed, worried wife beside him, is certainly not it. She freezes in the doorway, all of the coaching flying through her head as she tries to figure out how she should behave. Chanyeol comes up behind her, dismissing the servant hovering just outside the door, and pulls her into his side, curving gently around her. The motion unlocks her, and she shifts on her feet and glances back up at him.

He gives her a soft smile that doesn’t manage to crack his stony eyes and, yes, they’re supposed to be in love, of course he’s being kind. She can’t summon a smile back to him, not yet, so she simply leans her head into his hard, broad chest, and lets him lead her over to the bedside. He indicates the empty armchair pulled beside and holds tight to her forearms as she carefully sinks into the fluffy chair. And then he makes the introductions.

“Father, Mother,” he says as he leans on the back of Hana’s chair, “may I introduce to you my wife and the mother of my child.”

As his father looks her over with all of that sharpness always in Chanyeol’s eyes and his mother nods appraisingly, Hana realizes Chanyeol has no idea what her name is. He makes no attempt to introduce his parents to her - and why would he, when she is of such lower rank? No, _was_ of such lower rank - but simply allows the room to settle into an uneasy silence.

Hana’s just about to give into the urge to fidget under the heavy observation when the queen speaks to her. “And what is your name?” she asks, glancing to the side to settle her eyes meaningfully on her son.

Mercifully, she doesn’t stutter. “Hana, your majesty. It’s an honor to meet.” That’s the right words, right?

It must be close, at least, because the queen smiles at her as she runs her hand over her husband’s shoulder. “The honor is all mine, my dear. It is not every day one meets one’s daughter.”

Hana reflexively frowns and twists her hands in her skirts. What on earth should she make of that? As far as she could tell to this point, absolutely no one wanted her here. And now it’s an honor for the queen to meet her? Chanyeol’s fingers dig into her shoulders and she realizes his mother is speaking to her.

“-too young, I hope,” she catches from the queen. “My dear?”

“I’m sorry, your majesty,” Hana says. “I didn’t - I wasn’t.” She shakes her head as she tries to make the words fall into place.

The queen smiles that soft smile again, the one that turns down at the corner just like Chanyeol’s. “That’s perfectly alright, my dear. You _are_ very pregnant.” Before Hana can wonder what on earth that has to do with anything, the queen continues. “I asked how old you are. I would appreciate it if you would allay an old woman’s fears; you seem very young for all of this.”

“I am eighteen, your majesty. Nineteen in April.” She _is_ far too young for all of this, but she’s seen younger. “And if I may,” she continues, heart thudding as she speaks out of turn and rests her hands on her stomach, “these things may be too far along to consider my age.”

She’s rewarded with a laugh from the king. His wife glares at him before turning back on Hana.

\--

After a whirlwind hour of questioning, Hana is retired to her rooms for dinner, to be followed by an examination by the palace doctor. The queen had been horrified to learn Hana has never seen a physician in her life, and certainly not during the course of her pregnancy, and insisted on an examination. Chanyeol had managed to beg them time for food beforehand - mostly due to his own hunger. He sits in the spare chair and wolfs down his soup, barely pausing for breath as he eats. Hana only manages a few bites of her own before the smell of the tomatoes disagrees violently, and she has to turn it away.

Mina pulls her bowl and slides a ginger disk into Hana’s hand instead. It does its job just as well as usual; Hana is able to sit while Chanyeol finishes his dinner without complaint from her stomach.

While she waits for the next thing to happen to her, as it always does, Hana thinks about tomorrow. Once the queen had heard _just_ how little Hana can read and write - barely able to recognize her own name - she had declared Hana her own personal project. Her days will now be filled with lessons from the queen and any number of tutors, as found suitable by the queen, in reading and writing, decorum, history, law - whatever is necessary for a queen to know.

It’s a terrifying prospect for a girl who has never done anything more than scratch her name into a payment contract.

\--

The physician is a greying man with a neatly trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses that wastes no time in laying her back on the bed and sticking his hands on her stomach, fingers between her legs. Her breathing turns tight with just the authority in his voice as he enters the room, and she’s gone into the quiet place before she hits the bed.

She counts petals on roses in a snow-covered garden as the doctor’s hands put pressure on her body, leave fire in their wake, and the male voices bob about in conversation, just this much softer than she can hear. She doesn’t come back until the thud of the door closing filters through her haze.

“What a fucking whore,” Chanyeol laughs as he looks down on her. “You’ll go limp for _anyone_ , won’t you? And here I thought I was special, with my ability to make you lose your mind with _want_.” The words hurt, this time. “Did you even hear anything he said?”

“No,” Hana whispers as she pulls herself upright. Her throat hurts; had she been whimpering during the exam? That would certainly explain Chanyeol’s derision.

“No? How stupid.” His eyes glint wildly, suddenly, in the lamplight, and he stumbles backward. One hand flies outward to catch the bedpost while the other cups his eyes. He breathes heavily for a moment before he shakes himself back upright, and it’s like he’s flipped a switch. Gone is the abrasive, cruel man. In his place stands the soft boy who sings to Hana’s pregnant belly in the middle of the night in hopes of just one stir. He makes a crooked, apologetic smile that warms his eyes. “The doctor said the babies and you are all perfect.”

She’s struggling so hard to manage the incredible shift she barely notices the slip in the wording. It doesn’t matter, though; this soft Chanyeol rambles through the silence.

“-nd I don’t know what we’re going to do with two of them, but I’m so excited. I never thought - Hana, there’s two of them! There’s two little babies in you that I’m going to get to love and hold and they’re _perfect_.”

“There’s two?” she asks, voice small as her world spins.

Whatever his answer is, it is lost to the blackness as the world crashes down on her.

\--

She doesn’t see the soft Chanyeol again for a month. She barely sees Chanyeol at all. His time is spent running from meeting to meeting; spare moments are left at his father’s bedside - or that, at least, is what the servants say, passed on in quiet whispers to Hana’s ears.

For her part, she struggles through long days of lessons. Letters swim in her mind as she recites history and names, as her sentences are critiqued, as she learns how to sit at a dinner table. She quickly learns the queen is fond of physically moving her into proper form, turning her in her seat, angling her chin just so as she simply sits in a chair. And she’s fond of telling tales of her own pregnancy. After hearing of the days of labor involved in Chanyeol and Jongyeol’s birth, Hana stops listening entirely. It’s not worth the stress.

Sometimes Chanyeol finds her after everyone has retired for the evening. He’s all hard edges and sharp words. He inevitably finds the release of his tension in her as his long fingers leave black stripes along her ribs and his groans bury themselves deep within Hana’s heart as she finds it harder and harder to run to the quiet place when he touches her.

She’s not sure if that should count as a success.

\--

“My dear,” the queen says lightly as she assesses Hana’s abysmal handwriting, “we believe it will be beneficial for the public to see you and our son together. Happily.”

‘We’ being herself and the king, of course. “Of course,” Hana mumbles as she traces out another ‘G’. No matter how hard she tries, the bottom is never acceptable.

“It’s not a condition of your legitimacy,” the queen adds. Legitimacy, of course. It’s her favorite knife to threaten with. “But we feel it could...entice the public to support our son’s place on the throne, when the time comes. Especially in light of the papers since your pregnancy.” She holds out a falsely placating hand. “No mark against you, of course, my dear, but the public hasn’t responded particularly _well_ to your...predicament.”

The shotgun marriage, she means. The obvious and aggressive pregnancy. The class difference. All in that one knife.

But Hana is protected, in this space. Chanyeol, for all his faults, is adamant that she is _his wife_ and should be treated with all the respect due. She can stand to slide a knife or two of her own. “So you mention,” she says, never lifting her eyes from her paper. “I imagine the response is similar to your own marriage.”

The queen hisses through clenched teeth. Why she hadn’t expected Hana to play such a card, she cannot imagine. It is under the queen’s orders Hana studies her history. The left-handed, questionably-timed marriage of the current rulers is only one of many things she has learned in the past month.

“It is much worse,” the queen recovers. “I, at least, am of noble blood.”

That is absolutely the most outright unkind thing the queen has said to Hana yet. What a success.

\--

After a small, rapid discussion about what _exactly_ a royal should do on a public outing, Hana is let out of the carriage into the bustling warmth of the winter market. It extends down a cobbled street, tin roofs covering most of the length to keep the snow and ice off as fires burn merrily in braziers between stalls selling anything from handmade cups to piping hot hand pies. Even with their visit, people are crammed in the space, ladies’ skirts pressed flat as they chatter with each other and with vendors. Most people are still wrapped in their winter cloaks, hoods thrown down, and sip at hot cider in heavy mugs.

It takes but ten seconds from Chanyeol pressing a heavy coin purse into her hands for Hana to forget the warnings to stay near, not to make a fuss. She slips off into the crowd while Chanyeol is muttering to one of the footmen, exhilarated by the people and the coin in her hand.

Never in her life has she seen a market this big, this alive, much less had money to spend! She bounces from stall to stall - here, candles, here, candies, here, hot soup that burns as it slides down her throat. When the clerks talk to her, she smiles big and leans in, asking them questions that spin around them, them, them. They lean unconsciously into her; their eyes grow wide as they smile back, and she leaves, her job done.

She’s only slightly miffed when the grandmother selling the hot wine turns her away after just one cup - “For baby’s sake” - but it turns back into joy at the sight of hand carved pendants in the next stall. More than one vendor comments on her mask, as she drops it to the side to eat the food they sell. Their own are always old and cracking. Perhaps they had once been nice, but time has turned them nearly unusable.

And she’s made it nearly through the entire length of the market when a familiar hand settles against the small of her back. She stops walking as Yixing leans down to whisper in her ear.

“Time to go, madam,” he says, and she’s careful not to look at him, knowing the eyes on them. No use inviting talk.

\--

Mid-February finds them standing in the middle of a small, dirty, cramped and cold factory floor as looms whirr around them, women’s hands flying about the fabric as the owner extolls the production, the safety, the cleanliness.

“And you’ll note we employ no children on the premises here,” he says as he slides his glasses back on his face. He’d be twirling his mustache if it wasn’t covered by his rebreather, Hana expects.

“Very admirable, Mr. Jeon,” Chanyeol murmurs from beside her, voice almost hidden under the mechanical noise. “Others should seek to emulate your example.” He pulls Hana into him, drawing the older man’s attention to her, and, inevitably, her stomach. “Our children are our greatest resource. We shouldn’t be wasting them in factories like this.”

His face seems just as sincere as his voice, eyebrows narrowing together as he leans forward. Mr. Jeon is nodding along, the perfect picture of agreement, but Hana knows better. It’s been a few years since she’s been in a factory, but she’s confident that these machines - these massive, compact creatures? - are not run by adult hands, not usually. They’re far too compact for adult hands - even hands as small as her own - to dart in, to change bobbins, fix jams, to clean. And all the bobbins seem to be full, as if the machines had just been completely maintained and filled. Shouldn’t need anyone to reach in the machines if they’re in peak condition. Not for a while at least.

The conversation between the two men seems to have moved quickly on without her. It’s words about market prices and export rates and they haven’t even looked at her in almost ten minutes as they dragged her along around the factory floor.

She tugs gently on the back of Chanyeol’s coat, just enough to get his attention. When he turns to her, she whispers up at him, “May I please sit?”

“Of course,” he returns, concern filling his eyes, dark in the dimness. “Are you feeling faint?” he asks as Yixing, who, as Chanyeol’s first footman, shadows all of their public outings, and many private as well, hurries over from his place against the wall.

“A little,” she admits. It’s not the heat, it’s the noise, it’s the pounding of her head, it’s the memories just on the other side of that veil. “I just need - I just need a moment.”

“Yes, yes,” he says. To Yixing: “Find her somewhere to sit. She’s not feeling well.”

And it is there by the wall on a rickety wooden stool that Hana is sitting when her misgivings are proven in good faith.

She doesn’t see the little boy come out from his hiding place. She doesn’t see him reach into the machine to switch the bobbin as the gears and arms move. But she hears him scream and the machine grind as his shirt catches in the gears.

She’s not thinking as she stands. As she runs. As she shoves past the hideous, portly manager and grabs the boy by his stomach. As she falls backwards with arms tight around his waist and his arm is pulled free of the hungry machine.

And she’s certainly not thinking when she looks at the boy, bleeding against her stomach, and sees only a little girl, hair half gone to the grinding gears and arm chewed half away. She tears off her shawl, leaving the brooch pinned to her bodice where it tore through the fabric, and presses it against his arm.

“Get a doctor!” she hears herself scream as she holds the boy close, pulls his hand above his heart. “Chanyeol! Get a doctor! Now!”

It feels like a lifetime of holding the sobbing boy, whispering prayers against his cheek, before someone finally takes him from her. Other hands pull her up to standing, hold her shoulders and her cheeks. Probably Chanyeol, then, she thinks distantly before the terror on the edges of her vision takes over and everything goes black.

“It’s not fair,” she tells them all later, anyone who will listen. “He was just trying to work, and now he can’t, and he’s probably going to die. He can’t work with only one hand, not anywhere that’ll hire him, so he can’t eat. He’s going to starve and there’s nothing we can do.”

“That is the way it has always been,” Yixing says as he hands her a ginger candy and dabs at the cut on her face. “It will likely always be that way.”

Mina just sets the dinner tray down with a heavy sigh. “It isn’t fair,” she agrees. “If only someone would do something about it.”

And Chanyeol doesn’t react at all, when she whispers it to the back of his sleeping head.

\--

“Mina,” Hana asks on her fourth day of mandated bed rest, “is there any chance you can get me...something else...to do? I don’t know how much more I can knit without my wrists giving out.”

“I could find you something to sew,” Mina says, not looking up from her own needlepoint.

“Fuck!” Hana groans, and immediately regrets it. “I mean, souls in a bucket, Mina, I’d rather do all the washing up for a week than make another stitch. Are you sure I can’t do any housework or anything?”

“It is not fit for the princess,” Mina says, predictably.

“Then what about some books or something? I can almost kind of read decently now. Just, anything but this, please, Mina.”

Mina finally stands up, setting her needlepoint down on her seat cushion. “I’ll see what I can find, madam.”

“I thought I asked you not to call me that,” Hana mutters to the closed door.

\--

The king dies at noon.

\--

Chanyeol, predictably, holes himself up for weeks, despite the outside clamor to crown the new king.

He even tells his mother to, “politely, fuck off!”

\--

Eventually, he is pulled from Hana’s side. Forced onto the throne, crown dangling into his eyes.

Kingship comes with decisions. Decisions come with sides. Sides come with disagreements. Disagreements come with detractors. Detractors come with yelling at Hana about the most recent article published in the paper.

“How dare they! I’ll have their license pulled for this. Insinuating _I_ have no regard for the people of _my_ country. Everything I do is for them!”

Hana smooths a hand down his side. “Of course, sir. You do your best for them.” She carefully doesn’t mention who _they_ are, though. From what she’s been told, from what she’s read - he is doing his best. For _his_ people. _Her_ people, the common, the poor, the downtrodden, though? Left out to dry. And he doesn’t even see it.

\--

The babies come early. They come slow. They come small and sick into a room brought as warm as possible with roaring fires and steam in the walls against the cold March rains. The midwife whisks them away to rub them clean, pat them into crying, while Hana collapses into the bed, grateful for the small break before laboring out the afterbirth. 

Mina’s there, holding her hands and rubbing her back all through, forcing water into her as she sweats in the overheated room. And she strips the bed afterward, sending the soiled cloths away and replacing them with fresh around the girl.

It’ll be days before Chanyeol’s allowed in to see them. It’ll be more than a month before Hana’s allowed out of the room. She’s left wandering the small room in bare feet and light shifts, one babe or another held close to her as she tries to calm it before the other starts up too. They’re not really hers, she knows. They’re princes first - and good princes too, if the way their eyes glint in two colors is any indication - and that means they’re the people’s before anything else. She is only their caretaker, and not for long. Soon they’ll be old enough, big enough, strong enough to turn over to a wet nurse, and she’ll - what will she do then? It aches to put them down. She didn’t want to love them like this.

As the time passes, she stops fearing they’ll break laid on their own, stop breathing in their sleep. It frees her to do other things, like continue her studies while one naps in a sling against her chest. She asks to get books and Yixing brings them, passing them through the door to Mina. It’s hard to miss the fact they’re all law books. Subtlety be damned.

The boys seem strong and stable in her cautious arms. They seem inhumanly fragile in Chanyeol’s careless ones. She finds her hands often on his, shifting them under the babies’ heads, pulling arms from crushed positions. He never seems to notice.

\--

Two days after a particularly caustic article in the paper - another false deal, another town threatened by dangerous policy - Yixing slips a book on regency law into Hana’s reading pile.

It takes Chanyeol dropping the smaller boy for Hana to take it seriously.

\--

It’s surprisingly easy to plan regicide inside the walls of the king’s palace. Being the queen helps. It’s a word here, a word there, and coin slipped discreetly to a kitchen maid. Hana doesn’t know what they’re putting in his food, and she doesn’t want to know. That could be dangerous. All that matters is he starts to fade, slowly.

In October, he dies, wasted away to nothing in his bed while his mother sits his throne. Hana sits at his bedside and pretends to care.

And then she sits at her mother-in-law’s, as her grief overtakes her, finally.

The papers call it a family illness. They worry for the twins. Hana doesn’t.

\--

_Queen Hana’s regent rule lasted nineteen years; through to the opening of the seawalls and beyond. Her rule was kind to the common man, bringing prosperity and class to the smallest of people, and destruction to the upper echelons. The ashes of those who disagreed with her were so numerous history has come to know her as the ashen-fingered queen._


End file.
